


the world should stop

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all of the years you have known her, you have never known her to cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world should stop

You are thirteen years old when you die.

You are thirteen when you sacrifice everything in you for the sake of your friends, a note permanently impressed on the creases of your skin, a half of a sonata that plays over and over again. It's incessant repetition that no longer knocks on your front door, a vowel that no longer quivers in your throat, because you're choking; holding it back. You're choking and you put on an indifferent purse of lips, because you don't want anyone, ever, to foolishly believe that you're happy. You know now that you're doomed, you've always been doomed. You signed your initials on the self-imposed sentence long ago, when your best friend flew to the seventh gate (however stupidly that decision was made). But even now, in a timeline that conveys itself as an enigma to you, which you'll gladly refer to as just another alternate (after all, that's all it is to you), you feel strangely out of place.

You are the entity most commonly known as Davesprite, and you never want anyone, ever, to know that you’re sad.

(At least, anyone but her.)

In all of the years you have known her – for her caressing voice and eloquence, for her seemingly infinite knowledge and sight – you are suddenly winded with the small, subtle realization that you have never known her to cry. You have always had the unfortunate experience in associating crying with weakness; you didn’t cry. _Babies cry_. You didn’t cry. In that same tone, you were near certain that your friends didn’t cry, either. Though you never thought about it, you just knew.

_Rose Lalonde’s the Seer of Light_ , you say to yourself. _Godfuckingdamnit_.

You're not supposed to be there, watching her in her most helpless moment of malcontent. But you can't help it – your body is hidden by the fold of the wall and your eyes are fixed on the back of her hand, which presses against her right eye; her nose is wrinkled like her choppy, blonde hair which has never looked so lackluster in all the times you've had this irresistible urge to run your fingers through and through. Her hands grip the purple-colored dress that’s draped across her skin so tightly that you're undoubtedly sure she'd leave a mark if she were to let go. She's rocking slowly, and the oddest part -- the most blatant, disheartening part -- she's not making a single, audible sound.

You turn your head forward again, and release your body’s hold on the flat of the wall. Your wings breathe for only a moment, because you lay your back against it, once more. You blink and try to touch your right eye, but the black shades that cover your stupid goddamn orange-colored irises block your hand from your lashes.

It’s instantly that you are overwhelmed with feelings of irrational frustration.

You can’t place it; you can’t come to understand why you’re so furiously upset and why your heart beats like a drum, _thump_ -ing and _thump_ -ing, waiting for you to get caught by the girl who melted your reality. But you know, you know you know _you know_ ; the reason.

_If Rose cries_ , you think deep down, _then the world should, too_.

You stop slumping and stand a little taller, pushing away the hair that’s escaped the back of your ears. You turn your body to peer at her once again, but this time she’s up and walking toward your hiding spot.

You don’t move.

She passes you, left hand still wound in her velvet dress. She turns her head slightly, just to face you when you perk your own head back, startled. And she says nothing and she does nothing but stare, and you see her soft eyes, a gradient of violet and lavender and magenta, and all the colors you can’t distinguish for the life of you because never had you ever the chance to look at them so intricately, like you did just now.

In a brief moment, you decide to speak.

In that same brief moment, you decide to cry.


End file.
